


We Start Anew

by crossfirehurricane



Series: The Second Chance, and the Last [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Parenthood, Remarriage, Repressed Memories, Second Chances, Wedding Night, Wedding Planning, Widowed, everyone's three favorite things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 00:04:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6681331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossfirehurricane/pseuds/crossfirehurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After meeting somewhere in between, the pair of widows decide on an advantageous marriage of equals. With weddings comes great drama-- this time in the form of resistant children, a jealous competitor, and memories thought to be buried deep.</p><p>Yet the tribulations of a wedding may pale in comparison to that of marriage itself. Lyanna had gained Rhaegar's word that she may leave whenever she desired; becoming queen, mother, and wife all at once may prove to be too difficult a challenge for a woman whose desires had never been stationary. While Lyanna has plenty to lose, Rhaegar has much to gain-- and a prophecy's fulfillment is the greatest gain of all.</p><p>Or: Lyanna and Rhaegar give each other second chances, and it much easier said than done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rhaegar I

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Wow, it's been a while. And I'm so sorry about that; school has been a monster and finals week is ahead of me. I had this chapter written up for a while and I felt bad for letting it sit so long, so here it is.
> 
> I hope to be a better updater after this hellish week is over. Till then, I hope this is enough to hold you all over!
> 
> Thanks so much for your continued support, always.

_Dearest Lyanna,_

_I hope this letter reaches you well. It will not be long now until we will see each other again; only a couple of moon’s turns until I find myself in Winterfell and at your side. The children still do not believe that we are going so far north, Aegon in particular. His knowledge of geography is still childlike, and as far as he’s concerned, all that lies between King’s Landing and the Wall is wilderness. I’ve had to assure him many times that we shall meet no bears upon the road._

_News of the near-completion of the sept gladdens me. You have stressed that it is small and humble, but it shall be more than enough. Lord Connington has begun a count of the guests who desire to make this lengthy trip. Fear not, they will all find accommodations outside of Winterfell. I know that the castle is large, but courtiers tend to take up more room than most. They are also more tiresome than most, and I suspect only a small number of them will desire to take the trip._

_Do let me know if you require any assistance in your preparations. I know you shall not accept any funds from the royal treasury, but the power of a king lies not in his wealth, but in his word. A few choice ones from me, and I will see to it that any obstacle in your way shall be promptly removed._

_I await your next letter._

_Faithfully yours,  
Rhaegar_

He tapped the excess ink off his quill and into the ink jar, before setting it down to grasp the paper with both hands. The ink was still wet in places, so he set it back down to be sealed at a later time. The letters that were sent back and forth, to and from Winterfell, occurred with regularity. That action in and of itself was not new; they had sent letters before, many letters, but that had been some years ago. Now, the contents of letters were different, professional, no longer wrought with emotion or passion. It was a pattern that was reflective of their relationship. This marriage was a business venture, after all, and both parties sought to benefit from it.

As with all business, the matter of funds was one of utmost importance. Despite the wedding taking place in Winterfell, and thus on Lord Stark’s coin, Rhaegar himself had expenses of his own to consider. There was the matter of gifts, clothes, food, travelling, recompense for the accompanying soldiers, among many other matters. Rhaegar often kept track of his spending, wary of borrowing from domestically from his lords and abroad from the Iron Bank.

At such a time, it would be best to update himself on the state of the treasury. He had already set an appointment with Lord Tywin Lannister ahead of time, and the hour to meet with him was approaching. Glancing back at the paper, Rhaegar found the ink dry. He sealed it with red wax and the royal seal and set it on the corner of his writing desk to send later.

Lord Tywin kept his solar in his apartments within the castle. The books he kept were too large and heavy to be lugged across the Red Keep and into Rhaegar’s solar, thus the king had offered to meet him in his own rooms. It was not a far walk. Upon arrival, the doors had swung open to him, the servants clearly trained to catch the sound of footsteps approaching. Inside, the Master of Coin stood behind his desk, the book if interest already opened before him. Beside him was his daughter, the ever beautiful Cersei Lannister, poised to perfection.

“Your grace,” the two announced at the same time, Tywin punctuating the courtesy with a bow, Cersei with a curtsey. “I pray the day meets you well.”

“Very much so, my lord,” Rhaegar returned. “I have recently received word from Winterfell regarding their preparations, and all seems well. It is up to us now to ensure that all is well on our end too.”

Lord Tywin nodded, clearing his throat. “The cost of traveling will be costly, your grace. It is not too late to host the wedding in King’s Landing. More guests will ensure more gifts, and mitigate the cost of the wedding itself--”

Rhaegar waved a hand, brushing the idea away. “My bride desires a wedding in the north, and I aim to meet her in this, if nothing else.”

The corner of his lips turned ever so slightly downward. “Yes,” he said with mild distaste. “I’ve detailed the associated costs with such a venture here.” He extended a hand toward his daughter at his side, who picked up a nearby piece of parchment and placed it into his hands. Tywin then turned the paper over to Rhaegar, who wondered why such an action required three pairs of hands.

Rhaegar scanned the list and the estimated total with mild interest. All things considered, the cost was considerably less than he had expected. A wedding in the capital usually meant a greater cost of food, more entertainment, more accommodations, and in some cases a tourney to draw more visitors. All in all, Rhaegar figured the amount they would save by remaining where they were was a pittance.

He turned the paper back over to Tywin. “The details of the coffers are here, I presume?” Rhaegar asked, pointing to the book before him. The numbers there were heartening; he knew their coffers had gotten larger after the tourney that was recently hosted, putting him even more at ease in the matter of making the journey north. “Very good,” Rhaegar said, nodding. “There is enough in there for more spending, I should think. I’ve plans to clean up and repair the city, among other things.” Tywin opened his mouth as if to speak, but Rhaegar continued. “I think such talks would be best to have once we’ve a queen in the city. Perhaps she has noticed things we have not.”

“I doubt that,” Tywin returned plainly. “We keep a meticulous eye on this city, your grace.” He seemed disgruntled, though Rhaegar could hardly fathom why.

“Thank you for that, Lord Tywin,” he said. “I’m certain we’ll meet here again as the date comes closer.”

Tywin nodded and offered a shallow bow. Cersei, quiet till now, curtsied then tailed him out the door. 

“Your grace,” she said, breathless though she took only a few steps. “My father shall not be attending the wedding, as he intends to continue working in your absence. I’ve a request of you, if you would hear it, your majesty.”

Rhaegar bit back a sigh. It was unseemly enough that Cersei remained in King’s Landing after his betrothal, and he made it so that the opportunities to converse were few and far in between. He did much to keep contact between the two of them-- and his children --to a minimal without appearing uncouth. With there being no way to back out of this, Rhaegar took reluctantly took pause.

“What might that be, Lady Cersei?” He asked with strained courtesy.

“I should like to accompany you as part of the wedding party,” she said with a soft smile. “I can stand in my father’s stead. I can even assist our future queen on the wedding day itself, and be at her side. I should like to be a friend to her.”

Rhaegar bit back a grimace. What Cersei proposed was ridiculous-- she had been a contender for this marriage, and to put her in a position where petty jealousy may rise to the surface was a recipe for disaster. Yet she had left it up to Rhaegar to put her down gently. He attempted a soft smile and a kind tone.

“That is a kind offer, Lady Cersei. As you surely know by now, my guests have already been accounted for. While I certainly cannot prevent you from attending the wedding, I must admit that there shall be little to see. It shall only be a humble ceremony, and my bride will be well-equipped to handle it.”

He could tell by the twitch of her lip that this was not the answer she had been wanting; he know very well that she was the sort of woman who often had things handed to her, and as of late, Rhaegar had denied her much. It was a wonder that she still pursued him, or at least contact with him, as much as she did. Perhaps it was the thrill of the chase-- or fear that the chase was over.

“Are you certain of that, your grace? Weddings are always a hectic affair, and an extra pair of hands will surely be required…” She said, grabbing at a foothold back into the situation.

“I’m certain,” he returned firmly. “You are welcome to attend as a guest, if the arduous journey and northern weather interests you. Yet it hardly seems worth the trouble, when you surely have much to do here, with your father.”

She pursed her mouth into something resembling a smile. “Very well, your grace,” she said in a small voice following a curtsey. “I shall stay here, and prepare a warm welcome for our future queen.”

Rhaegar opened his mouth to protest, but she had already walked off by then. Instead, he found himself fixed to where he stood, molars grinding. _I must be rid of her somehow,_ a voice insists. It was all for the sake of politeness and respect that he let her stay, but he could not have her delve deeper into his life. He had once entertained thoughts of marrying her, allowed her closeness with his children, humored her arbitrary visits to his solar-- and surely the courtiers had noticed.

For now she could do no harm, loitering about the castle with her claims of being of great importance to her father. Yet once a queen returned to this edifice, she would have to move aside, and quickly.

“Perhaps I should put the idea to Jon,” he mumbled to himself. His Hand was not one of great courtesy nor a great love for women, and perhaps he could find a man suitable enough to present to her. Marriage was the quickest way to rid the house of a girl, after all, and not even proud Lord Tywin could refuse an alliance that would bring him even greater power and wealth.

Yet now was not the time to connive. Fore once, there were fairer thoughts to put to mind, and fairer people to think of.


	2. Lyanna I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine months after Lyanna returned to Winterfell, the sept has been completed. She plants one foot in the present, and the other in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! :)

Lyanna woke up to a weight on her chest and the feeling of sticky hands on her face. She smiled, knowing very well who it was and kissed one of the small hands as it pressed upon her mouth.

“Good morning to you too, little Edwyn,” she mumbled, opening her eyes to see the babe’s big blue eyes looking down into hers. As she sat up, she scooped him onto her lap and kissed his head. “Either you woke your mother early, or she woke you.” She gave a little smirk to Catelyn, who was standing by the side of the bed, a grin lighting up her whole face.

“I could hardly sleep the night before,” she admitted, nearly breathless. “They said the sept would be ready by this morning-- I have waited so long to see it.” Her eyes twinkled as she spoke, with excitement pouring out of every word.

The sept had begun construction right after Catelyn gave birth to Edwyn, and Lyanna had been at her side during that ordeal and in delivering the happy news of the creation of this new building. Its official purpose was for the sake of the royal wedding, yet there was no sense in tearing it down after nearly nine moons’ turns of hard work, and thus it would remain standing to be visited by anyone. Lyanna already knew who its main visitor would be-- and in truth, Catelyn was the reason she had it built in the first place.

 _I read in a book that you and I don’t need any stuffy sept, only a septon and all those oils,_ she had written to Rhaegar in a letter shortly after her return to Winterfell, _But I will have one built anyways. Catelyn needs a better place to pray than at her bedside._

“Promise you won’t be disappointed?” Lyanna asked her as she passed Edwyn back to his mother. He gurgled happily and shoved a fist in his mouth. “It is smaller than what you’re used to. I tried to have it decorated the best we could, too, but there are very few signs of the Seven in the North.”

“I’ve seen it from the outside-- it is not so small,” Catelyn returned, still chipper. “Even so, the smaller the sept, the closer you are to the gods within. That is what truly matters in the end.”

Catelyn’s cheer was contagious; Lyanna smiled and kissed her cheek once she had risen from her bed. She shuffled over to her wardrobe and picked a dress at random, and changed into it without going behind the screen. Lyanna and Catelyn were past privacy-- she had seen Cat give birth, after all, and there was very little to hide in such a situation. 

Lyanna tilted her head towards the door. “Come on, then. Lead the way.” She braided her hair over her shoulder as she followed Catelyn, not quite caring for appearances by this point. Soon enough she’d be polished and coiffed for a wedding and she knew enough about that exhausting process to take advantage of every opportunity to be lazy in her dress. Moreover, once she arrived in King’s Landing, it would be nothing but the finest to impress-- or rather, appease --every courtier who gave her a passing glance.

Once they stepped out into the yard, the sun still half-risen upon the horizon, the trio took note of a chill that prompted them to scurry back into the castle and pull on cloaks. They could see their breaths in the morning air, puffs of white, as they walked in the direction of the newly built sept. Lyanna had hooked her arm in Catelyn’s during this brief walk, the proximity provide both warmth and comfort. Her goodsister’s excitement was still noticeable both upon her face and the her brisk walk that sent Edwyn bouncing upon her hip.

There was no one working on the sept now, the men likely having finished their tasks in the night and trounced off to find a warm bed and ale. From the outside the building was nothing impressive; it was as Lyanna had said, small and unassuming. Yet Catelyn practically dragged her through the low oak doors, bringing the chill to the inside of the house of worship.

Someone had lit the incense in the night, giving the whole room a spicy yet pleasant scent. Candles were lit at the base of each of the Seven gods’ likenesses, which were all situated at equidistant points against the seven walls, and it gave the stone statues an eerie glow, shadows playing upon their carved faces. Looking up, there also seven stained glass windows against each wall, a ways above from the statues. Lyanna was sure that once light poured into the building, the floors would become awash with faint, lovely colors.

It was clear that more decoration had to be done to give the building a fuller feeling, but in its current spaciousness, it would do splendidly for a wedding. Yet that was still some ways off from now; she looked over to Catelyn, present in the moment, and smiled at her bright face.

“Oh, it is lovely,” Catelyn mused in a heavy sigh, her blue eyes darting from one object to another. “It is _perfect_. They are here right now, the gods are. This far north-- can you imagine?”

Lyanna slyly pulled Edwyn into her arms so his mother may have an untethered look around. Her nephew still had his fist in his mouth, sucking on it loudly as he too glanced about the room, a small smile upon his face. He was generally a rather cheerful little boy, with lungs of steel and a voice that carried regardless if he was giggling or screaming. In appearances, he took entirely after his mother-- blue Tully eyes, auburn Tully hair, and a way of taking things in stride rather than fussing immediately. His father, Brandon, took a mild interest in him, playing with his son only when he was in good cheer and leaving him to his mother when he was not. Lyanna had faith that his interest would pick up more when the boy was old enough to learn to ride or fight-- two of Brandon’s favorite things.

As the boy looked around the room eagerly, she wondered if Edwyn would take after his mother in her faith too, praying to these seven gods set in stone. She had a feeling he would.

Catelyn rushed back to her and clasped her arm, still grinning. “Can you take care of him for a bit? I should like to pray alone before my day starts.”

Lyanna nodded, happy to oblige. She shifted Edwyn on her hip and took them both back to the castle-- but not before one last look over her shoulder. _That shall be the building where I seal my fate,_ she mused. She did not know how to describe the feeling in her stomach then: somewhere between unease and glee, it roiled, and made her feel quite strange.

It was still early, but the cooks were up, and they gave her fresh loaves of bread with cheese to snack on before they had the bulk of breakfast made. Lyanna sat with Edwyn in the den and fed him small pieces of bread and cheese, which he chewed thoughtfully with his few baby teeth. 

Doting on her nephew came naturally to her. His company was an enjoyable one; she regularly took him out to different parts of the castle to explore and see new things. So far he enjoyed petting the horses in the stables, clung closely to her in the godswood, and was completely terrified of the rookery, screaming at the top of his lungs when he saw how many birds sat there staring at him with their black, beady eyes. That had only riled the birds into beating their wings, the combined noise sounding much like a howling thunderstorm, and it horrified poor Edwyn even further.

Someone had stepped into the den; Lyanna looked up from her nephew to see Brandon coming in from the outside, and towards his bedchambers. He stopped to stare groggily at the two of them.

“Why are you up so early?” He asked in a sleepy voice. He yawned immediately after.

“Fair morn to you too, brother mine,” Lyanna replied with a roll of her eyes. “Did you see the new sept?”

“The sept? Oh, sure.” Wherever he had been the night before, it certainly wasn’t supervising the project. His hair was tousled and his clothes were in a disarray, with the hem of his shirt half tucked out of his trousers. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, making his words come out a little thick. There was no doubt in Lyanna’s mind what he had been doing the night before. “Where’s Cat?”

“If you saw the sept as you say you did, then you would know,” Lyanna returned with a raise of her brows.

His behavior was exasperating in that it was entirely reckless. The wolf blood their father claimed they shared had very different outlets in the two of them; Brandon was a man, and it was easier for him to slip free of chains of responsibility without losing any standing. If he went whoring and drinking for a night, then folks would claim it was do to a healthy appetite. Catching him in the aftermath of that was infuriating; when Lyanna had wanted to free herself from marriage, what were her options? If she had wanted to bed another man when she was with Robert, or shirk her responsibilities as his wife, she faced her husband’s wrath. If she had run away with Rhaegar instead, she would have been disgraced. Even now, in her upcoming marriage, with terms set that gave her the freedom to leave, she knew it would not be without its consequences.

Thus it boiled her blood that morning, to have Brandon’s son in her lap, caring for him, while his father stood before him still disheveled from whatever antics he participated in with however many whores in whichever seedy brothel.

He made to walk away, but she spoke up again. “You used to tell me you hated Robert, yet when I look at you, Brandon, I see little difference between the two of you.” He froze in his tracks. When he turned to look at her, it was clear to see how the insult burned him by the fire behind his eyes. “You’re kinder to your wife, perhaps, but only in the way you touch her. Yet I do not intend to praise you for not beating or forcing yourself upon her.”

“What are you trying to tell me?” He snapped at her, his hands balled into fists. 

“I am telling you that you are a neglectful husband and a worse father,” she said, eyes narrowed, all while helping another piece of bread into Edwyn’s mouth. “Neither of which are qualities that father has, or Ned and Benjen may have. In fact, I have seen your son in Ned’s arms more than your own, and it was Ned who managed the sept’s construction. He does great work for father while you do none; I often look at him and wonder how it is that _you_ will be the next Lord of Winterfell and not he.”

“What a sharp tongue you have, sister mine,” Brandon retorted with a cruel smile. “It easy to see how such a thing might have driven your worthless husband to throw himself off his horse.”

Lyanna’s face burned at the insinuation, but she bit her tongue to keep herself from taking the bait. It was clear to her now, in a way it hadn’t been when she was younger, that Brandon played at cruelty to lure her into a new argument, and to drop the one that had been occurring before. She was older now, and she hoped wiser too.

“Would that he had heeded my words instead of ignored them; perhaps then life with him may have approached something bearable. That is why I look to your wife and fear for her. I see some of myself in her, and I understand the sorrow she leaves unspoken.” His seemed to soften him; not by much, but enough for Lyanna to notice the subtle differences in his stance and glare. “I have helped her much, and I have grown to love her. She is warm, and kind, and generous-- and beautiful too, far more than any of the tavern wenches you may bed in pantries and stables.” She breaks off a piece of cheese and puts it to her nephew’s lips; he holds her wrist tenderly as he guides it to his mouth. “I share these words with you now because I shall be gone soon. I do not want to leave without saying that I did not at least try to convince you to behave like the man you ought to be.”

“I do not take lectures from my baby sister, even if she is to be our fair queen.” Brandon said this mockingly, waving the title around as if it meant nothing to him. Of course, it really didn’t mean anything to him; but Lyanna knew this. “If Ned is a much better man than I, perhaps I should make off and give him Winterfell and my wife and son. What do you say, Lya? Won’t that be the best for us all?”

Lyanna grimaced. “Brandon--”

“I’ll have my wide open skies and my tavern wenches, and she can have a husband who can’t form two words in front of her without blushing red.” He smiled again, sardonically this time. “You’re frowning, sweetling. Did I say something off?”

“I did not realize I was asking so much of you, to be a good man,” she snapped, glancing down in time to catch Edwyn spitting out the last piece of bread she gave him. “Don’t you think of her? Of your son?” Her nephew began to squirm and whine in her lap, and Lyanna shifted him so he did not fall off. She sighed. “I love you, Brandon, but in this you are entirely unlovable-- Gods.” She stood, pulling Edwyn up into her arms as she did. He stopped whimpering but continued to squirm. 

“Give him here,” Brandon commanded gruffly. Silently, Lyanna turn the boy over to his father arm’s, where she stopped shifting immediately. He stared up at his oft-absent father with wide eyes, as if he were trying to remember where he knew him from. “See? He’s quiet with me.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“It means he respects his father.” He grinned broadly. 

Lyanna nearly groaned. “Brandon--”

“I do not enjoy being held down,” he spoke firmly, his voice clear and strong. “I cannot stand it-- you know what I mean, surely. You and I are much the same. In fact, sweet sister, if I know you at all, I know you’ve already thought of a way to leave our beloved king should it come to it.”

Lyanna parted her lips to deny it, despite the fact that what he said was true. He sensed this, and nodded knowingly, almost appreciatively. He approved.

“I am a father and a husband when need be. I am a lord when need be. I do my duty by my family. Perhaps it is not enough for you, or for Cat, or father, but it is for me. Call me selfish if that is the word you wish to pin on me, I do not care. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.” He was quoting their father, a chilling sentiment that had always frightened Lyanna. Even now, it sent a chill down her spine. “We are a pack in Winterfell. We take care of each other. You’re exiting the fold, sister. Think not of me, but of yourself.” He poked her gently in her side. “And do not pretend as if I would not cross oceans for you. For any of you.” He pressed a kiss to the top of his son’s auburn head, and returned him to Lyanna’s arms. “Keep your lectures for the king’s children. Play mother to them, not me, little one.”

Lyanna nearly huffed at that childish epithet, but felt she would only be confirm it. Still, she made a face, and it was one that he laughed at before stalking off to his rooms. _Do I judge him too harshly?_ She wondered. _Is Brandon truly fixed in what he is now?_

Lyanna sighed, then shook her head. “One day I shall come back and you will be speaking,” she murmured to Edwyn, wiping off a piece of cheese that has stuck to his face. “Perhaps then you can tell me what you think of him.” Edwyn gurgled in response, and she hoped it meant something like, _I will, and you’ll be happy to hear it._


	3. Rhaegar II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The royal wedding party arrives in Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This summer semester is almost over-- I promise that I'll update this and other fics more often soon!
> 
> Thank you for reading!

“Papa, I’m _cold_.”

Rhaegar looked down at where his daughter sat in front of him in the saddle, already swaddled up in furs. In truth, it was not that cold; winter was over, and a chill remained in the air, but only because they were so far North. Rhaegar hardly felt it with his cloak and gloves, but Rhaenys had made a point to complain of it every hour, on the hour.

“Sweetling, go ride in the wheelhouse with your brother. It’s warmer in there,” Rhaegar answered, forcing what was going to be grimace into a hard line. 

“But I don’t _want_ to,” she answered, grumbling.

“Then I’ll have someone fetch you yet another cloak,” he said, trying to stay amiable.

“But they’re so heavy!” She cried in return, the words coming out as a long whine.

Rhaegar set his jaw and kept silent, attempting once again to find peace in the journey north. Truth be told, his six year old daughter had tried his patience more than once throughout the trip; between arbitrary tantrums, outrageous demands, and bold-faced misbehavior, Rhaegar nearly had a mind to toss her over his knee and spank her-- or at the very least, ignore her furiously until she found better ways to earn his attention.

“Papa!” She called out, wiggling in the saddle and thumping the back of her head against his chest. “It’s not fair! I don’t wanna be here! It’s too cold!”

Rhaegar tugged on his reins, pulling the horse to a sudden stop. All other movement around him ceased, their eyes fixed on the pair.

“I’m sending you to the wheelhouse,” Rhaegar whispered tensely, climbing down from the stallion. He pulled his daughter down afterward, taking hold of her hand as he walked her to the wheelhouse. She dug her heels into the ground in protest, and threw herself down in attempts to make him drag her. Rhaegar hardly had the time; he tossed her over his shoulder, and carried her like that, kicking and screaming, all the way to the wheelhouse her brother was in.

She was red-faced and bawling by the time they entered, her furs as ragged mess around her shoulders. Aegon ran to Rhaegar’s side, clinging to his pant leg in excitement.

“Papa! Papa!” He cried out excitedly, though Rhaegar’s focus was hardly diverted. A septa came and took him away gently by the hand.

“What has overcome you, Rhaenys?” Rhaegar asked his daughter, who was thrown herself onto the ground in grief, still sobbing. He tried to reach for her shoulders to hold her and speak to her, but she swatted away his hands with a scream. “Your behavior is unseemly. You know better; you have always behaved better.”

Despite the forced gentleness of this tone, Rhaenys spent the next few minutes curled up on the floor, crying until her tears devolved into sniffles. By then, Rhaegar had already sat back in a chair, exasperated and exhausted, contemplating imbibing wine despite it being so early in the day. When his daughter stood back up and shook herself of the furs, leaving them in a pile on the floor, he noticed beads of sweat on the skin of her neck. _Not so cold after all._ He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, taking a few moments to calm himself.

“I do not understand, sweetling,” he began softly, trying warmth where being hard had failed. “What has happened that your mood has turned so foul?” The wheelhouse began to roll forward.

Rhaenys sniffled and pouted, then crossed her arms over her chest. She seemed to be of the mind to simply stay silent, providing him with no answers, and her with enough resentment to fuel whatever misbehavior she had in mind next. Rhaegar gave a long, tired sigh and rose from his seat. As soon as he did, Aegon made a second attempt at making contact, and threw himself at his leg. Rhaegar kneeled to kiss the top of his silver head.

“Are we there yet?” He asked in his childish tongue; his speech was developing rapidly, but he often lisped as he spoke. 

“Nearly,” Rhaegar answered. _We cannot get there soon enough._ “Would you like to ride with me the rest of the day?”

Aegon responded enthusiastically, bouncing up and down and holding firmly to his father’s hand. Meanwhile, his sister glared at him, her arms still crossed and lower lip jutted out in an indignant pout.

“You will sit in here, and remain in here until we reach Winterfell,” Rhaegar told his daughter cooly. “I will ask for a report from Septa Darna by the end of the day regarding your behavior. If you wish to see me and explain yourself, speak to her.”

His daughter’s dark eyes narrowed into a wrathful look that reminded him too much of her uncle Oberyn. Rhaegar tried not to be unnerved.  
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His arrival in Winterfell is punctuated by Ser Arthur Dayne, who announced his presence in place of a herald, who would have been a useless addition to the wedding party. Rhaegar had neglected to remove Aegon from his saddle beforehand, and thus rode in with his son half asleep with his head leaned back on his chest. The people of Winterfell were kneeling as the rest of Rhaegar’s small travelling party poured in. He spotted Lyanna immediately by the crown of her head, her dark brown hair swept over her back and shoulders.

“Rise!” Rhaegar called out before coming down from his saddle. He carefully removed Aegon as well, who gradually became more awake due to the noise. Setting him down on the ground, his son staggered on unsteady feet before straightening himself and looking curiously from one body to the next.

Rhaegar walked to where the Lord of Winterfell stood; Lord Rickard was a tall, broad man, with hard eyes that were a grey so dark they almost seemed black. “I should thank you for opening your home to us, and for graciously hosting this wedding, my lord,” Rhaegar said. “The addition of the sept was a generous act.”

“A small matter, your grace, and easily done,” Rickard replied in a deep voice that was too low to be considered booming, yet still resonated in his ears. “Welcome to Winterfell.” He bows, and Rhaegar bids him to rise with an hand on his arm.

“I will surely speak with you as soon as we are settled,” Rhaegar assured him. He knew as well as anyone that weddings did not come without a price; there were still a few hard, awkward discussions ahead of him, and he intended to finish them as soon as possible.

Before him were more introductions; he became re-acquainted with Brandon Stark, who still had the same wild, dangerous look in the eye that he had when he had last seen him. Granted, that instance had not given Rhaegar much room for mercy; he had unhorsed him and crowned his sister the queen of love and beauty in the same day, and now Rhaegar had returned to wed that same sister. He did not expect a warm greeting.

Eddard was more forgiving, characteristically solemn and gracious. Benjen was courteous and spoke with the grace of a boy twice his age. Catelyn was sweet to look upon, and her babe had gurgled happily for the brief time that he was in Rhaegar’s arms. When Rhaegar came upon Lyanna, she had smiled coyly for him, and gave him her hand. He pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles, and gave her fingers a squeeze before returning them to her side.

It was then that Aegon had come running up to him, excited to take place in the introductions as well. “This is my son, Aegon,” Rhaegar said, placing a hand on the back of his head, which bobbed up and down as he rocked on his heels. “Aegon, say hello to Lord Stark, and to his family.”

“Pleasure to meet you!” Aegon said, reciting what he had been made to practice just for situations like these. Except this time, Aegon took it upon himself to repeat this sentiment to every person down the line, starting from Lord Stark and ending at Lyanna. When Lyanna had kneeled and opened her arms to him, he ran into them, blind and wholly trusting.

“Do you remember me?” She had asked him. Aegon admitted that he did not by shaking his head. “Well, I shall remind you later.” Aegon chose to remain at her side and hold her hand, while he stuck the thumb of his free hand into his mouth.

Rhaenys, trailed by her septa who was urging her along, walked up beside Rhaegar as well. She was still cross, and made no effort in hiding it, glaring at the family that stood before her. Rhaegar placed a firm hand on her shoulder, hoping that her rage and his own annoyance was not too obvious. “This is Rhaenys. Sweetling, say hello.”

Her lips formed a tighter line than before as she refused to utter a word. Rhaegar squeezed her shoulder, urging her speak with a hard look. She looked right back at him, balled her fists and muttered, “hello.”

“I apologize, my lords,” Rhaegar was forced to say, embarrassed but unable to chastise his daughter before them all. “Travelling has put her in a sour mood.”

“Perhaps I could show you to your bedchamber, Rhaenys?” Lyanna offered, extending her other hand out to her. “A bath can be drawn for you quickly, and the bed is all ready to be slept in,”

Rhaenys replied with an icy silence that made matters all the more awkward. Lyanna’s hand eventually fell back to her side, and she shot Rhaegar a private, questioning glance.

“I think she shall do just that,” Rhaegar quipped, giving his daughter a little push forward and her septa a sharp look. “Go with Lady Lyanna, Rhaenys.” Rhaenys relented, but not without a huff. She followed Lyanna, Aegon, and Catelyn with Septa Darna hot on her heels. 

With the awkwardness of Rhaenys’ behavior behind them, Rhaegar looked back at the lords of Winterfell. It’s the youngest one, Benjen, who comes up to him and offers a deep bow.

“I’m to show you to your chambers, your grace,” he said before standing straight. “My lord father will see you whenever you are ready. If you have any questions or requests, you may ask me.” He smiled brightly and bowed again.

“Thank you, Lord Benjen,” Rhaegar returned. “My lords,” he said in parting to the men before him. The men returned with shallow bows, save for Brandon, who stood with his spine as straight as a spear. The courtyard began to move again; some of Rhaegar’s wedding guests had begun idle chatter with others present, some of whom Rhaegar could only assume were other Northern lords and ladies he’d soon be meeting and exchanging words with. Others kept to themselves, preferring to whisper to each other rather than mingle with these new people from different cultures. Rhaegar himself could not presume to know much about the culture here in the North, though he did wish to know more. His interest had been piqued anew when he saw a tall, stocky woman dressed in ringmail and wearing a spiked mace at her hip. She had four girls around her of varying ages, all dressed in either ringmail or hard leather armor.

“That’s Lady Maege Mormont,” Benjen informed him with a nervous smile. “Her brother, Jeor, is at the Wall, and I guess Lord Jorah is still at Bear Island.”

“Mormont,” Rhaegar repeated. He had heard of the name. “She’s a warrior?”

Benjen nodded. “All Mormont women are. They had to be, back when the Greyjoys would raid Bear Island. I guess they don’t need to worry about that too much anymore, but they still learn to fight anyways.”

“I’m sure your sister would have liked such a thing for herself,” Rhaegar said, largely to himself, but Benjen caught it anyways and smiled.

“Lya had other ways of learning,” he said with a hint of pride. “Though my father would never allow her to carry a sword. He thinks it’s unseemly for a woman.” Benjen appeared embarrassed for a moment, and shook his head quickly. “Apologies, your grace, I think I said too much.”

Rhaegar chuckled warmly. “I know more about your sister than you’d think, Lord Benjen. In fact, she’s told me of your desire to go to the Wall-- and I wondered if I could persuade you to become my squire.”

Benjen stopped in his tracks. His eyes widened, and his jaw dropped in shock. “A squire? Your grace-- northmen don’t take knight’s vows.”

“You need not become a knight. You could become a warrior, however. I can teach you as much.” He tilted his head to Arthur, who walked behind them. “Or Arthur may teach you, if you’d prefer. I hear he is able with a sword.”

“I-I shall take that into consideration. Thank you for the offer, your grace.” He took them the rest of the way to Rhaegar’s chambers in a thoughtful silence, no doubt mulling over the prospect just offered to him. Rhaegar hoped he’d take it; nothing would please Lyanna more than to have one of her brothers in King’s Landing with her. It would no doubt come as a sweet surprise.

 _There could hardly be a friendlier face to greet her in the capital,_ Rhaegar thought as Benjen parted from them with a low bow and another anxious smile. Once alone, Rhaegar settled into the nearest chair and undid the buttons of his doublet. It was the first time he’d known silence since leaving King’s Landing, and the first time he’d been alone. He took brief solace in this, knowing very well how rare such moments are in the midst of weddings-- and after them, too. Rhaegar took the opportunity to close his eyes and think of the road back home, of the forgotten memory of a warm bed at night, and of Rhaenys’ smile. It was her smile he wished to see most of all, instead of the grimaces and tears she had treated him to as of late. When she smiled, she looked even more like her mother than she already did. That was an uplifting thought-- a happy Elia, like she had been on their own wedding day. Her skin glowing, her hair glossy and long, a woman older than him, brighter.

A happy Rhaenys on this wedding day would be just as sweet, he thinks. It was unfortunate that such a feat was proving to be more challenging than he expected it to be.


	4. Lyanna II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her wedding day arrives quickly, but that does not concern Lyanna. It's what happens at night that does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do an excellent vanishing act, don't I? My life has been crazy. I'd apologize, but honestly there was no way for me to write this chapter sooner. I hope you all are doing well! Enjoy!

Sometimes, when Lyanna rode too hard and too fast, she would cease to see the world before her. The wind would sting her eyes until details blurred into vague shapes, and she went both deaf and blind to the world until her horse grew tired and slowed down.

On the day of her wedding, the world didn’t slow until her wedding feast. Everything that had come to pass between the time she was woken up, groggy and sleepy-eyed, to that very moment was one long string of memory she could only faintly recall.

A few images stuck: that of her skin, glowing red after being scrubbed raw in a bath. The cold morning air as she said her vows before the heart tree-- a ceremony marked in memory only due to the uniqueness of it, as it was something she had not done in her first wedding. There was also the sept in mind, the sight of its open doors as wedding guests overfilled the small building and poured into the courtyard. The kiss-- the kiss too still tingled on her lips, one that was soft and sweet and chaste, a kiss that tasted like a sealing of vows.

Now she sat at the high table, her hand on Rhaegar’s arm, blinking at the raucous crowd before her, wondering if it was a blessing that she had experienced everything that came before so quickly. There was little that was new to her, after all. All weddings were the same in some way or another; ceremony, then more ceremony, then food and dancing and singing and bedding…

That part she would gladly race through, though now it seemed the world had slowed to its normal cadence permanently. She looks to her new husband at her side, a man more handsome than she and twice as regal.

 _Have I made a mistake?_ The thought struck her, not for the first time. The vows were spoken, the ribbon was tied, the gods had stood witness, and now she belonged to him, in body and in spirit. Was it too soon to see if his word was true? Too ask him if she may stay in Winterfell, rather than leave for King’s Landing? 

She feels Rhaegar’s hand cover hers where it still rested on his arm. “Are you alright?” Rhaegar-- her _husband_ asked.

“Wonderful,” Lyanna lied, licking her suddenly dry lips. “I, er-- I feel I haven’t seen you very much since you arrived in Winterfell. I have questions--”

“Papa, the noise hurts my ears,” came Rhaenys’ voice from beside her. When did she get there? 

“Should you like to go to bed, sweetling?” The princess’s father returned.

The girl made a face of displeasure. “No, I want to stay.”

Rhaegar directed a private grimace Lyanna’s way. “She has been impossible the entire trip,” he confided in her. “I am nearing the end of my patience.”

“She is frightened by the changes being made to her life,” Lyanna said, unsure if she was speaking about herself or Rhaenys. “I’m sure she will accept them all, in time.” _She will, won’t she?_

“Then it is fortunate I have you, so that when my patience ends you may pick up from where I leave off,” he returned with a smile, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. This action garnered a whine of genuine distaste from the little princess. “Between her and Aegon, you will certainly have your hands full.”

Lyanna blanched as she looked to Aegon, who sat beside his father. “Sat” was actually an inaccurate term; he bounced, and jumped, and kicked…

_Oh, gods, I do not think I am fit for this._

Another minute at the high table and Lyanna might have swooned out of sheer fright. Brandon had swooped in at just the right moment, insisting on a dance that was somehow less dizzying than sitting with her new family.

“Where is the color in your cheeks, sister?” He asked her as he spun her around. “Don’t tell me you haven’t touched the wine yet?”

“I… Wine, yes. That sounds good. Where is it?” Lyanna asked, looking around at her morphing surroundings.

“I’ve a skin of it in my boot, but that’s meant for when there’s no wine around. You’ll find a nice, full cup at your table, however.” He then pinched her side playfully. “You’ll need it, aye? I hear royal beddings have witnesses.”

“Witnesses?” Lyanna choked. “People will be… _watching_ us?” The thought was beyond mortifying.

Brandon managed to shrug as he danced. “Just what I heard. I promise I’ll not be one of them; I don’t think I could watch you and him--”

“Brandon. _Stop_ ,” Lyanna said firmly, swallowing the dry lump in her throat.

“Your wish is my command, sweet sister,” her brother said, sickly sweet, as he spun her back to the high table.

It suddenly became pertinent that Lyanna understood the truth of the situation. However, to her dismay, the children were still seated within earshot. She couldn’t just ask about being bedded in front of them-- well, not without a little wine.

She took a gulp of the wine in her cup, scrunching her nose at the sweetness of it. It was sweeter than summerwine, which had already been the sweetest one she’d ever drank.

“Arbor red,” Rhaegar informed her with a chuckle. “I had it brought with me-- a gift from House Tyrell. It is rather sweet, isn’t it?”

“Too much so,” Lyanna admitted. She could feel her stomach roil. 

“You might have liked a Dornish red more. Unfortunately, House Martell could not spare such a gift.” He said this amiably enough, but Lyanna was conspiratory enough to devolve a second meaning: _The Dornishmen hate me, then? And how not? Here I am, attempting to take a place that once belong to their princess, playing mother to her children, going to bed with her husband…_

“When should you like to retire to bed?” Rhaegar asked, as if reading her thoughts. 

“The bedding--” Lyanna flushed as she remembered the children around them, then lowered her voice. “That is… I’m not…”

“There shall be no bedding; it’s not proper for a queen to be undressed by strange men,” Rhaegar assured her.

That had not been Lyanna’s chief concern, but the revelation neither uplifted her nor did it dismay her. In fact, she would have almost preferred to be stripped by strangers-- they get an eyeful of her, sure, but at least they weren’t present when her husband would sheathe himself inside her.

“I… I am not tired yet. Later?”

Her husband relented kindly, but Lyanna had felt miserable. She tried not to let it show; she smiled at the men who danced with her, accepted congratulations graciously from the wedding guests, and giggled at Rhaenys and Aegon, all while trying to mask the urge to down an entire bottle of the overly sweet spirit Rhaegar called an “Arbor red”. If she were to have witnesses to her bloody bedding, she’d rather not be a drunken mess before them too. A shred of dignity would be a nice thing to cling to.

It became obvious later in the night that their guests became quite tired of looking at them. They all seemed to eye her, wondering when she’d gather her skirts and scurry off to a bedchamber to prepare for her performance. Perhaps they paid for admittance to the event, and didn’t want to see their coin wasted.

Lyanna glanced around her; first to the children, who had each fallen asleep in their chairs. Then to her brothers, scattered around the room, each one looking mirthful and somehow rather sorrowful (except for Brandon, who was only mirthful), and to Catelyn, who smiled kindly at her. Finally, she looked to Rhaegar, quiet, thoughtful Rhaegar, and gave in.

Lyanna stood, and the whole room paused to stare at her. She was frozen in place for some time before Catelyn scurried to her side and took her arm. Her goodsister led her to the bedchambers prepared for this very ordeal; upon arriving, Lyanna slumped on the bed.

“Now there’s a face I did not expect to see in the wedding bed,” Catelyn said with a chuckle. “That’s the face I made when I knew I’d be losing my maidenhead. You’ve nothing to lose, dear Lyanna.” It was an uncharacteristically improper jest, one that surprised even Lyanna. It occurred to her that Catelyn’s flushed cheeks had less to do with excitement and more to do with a cup of wine or two.

“Brandon said I’m to have witnesses. That people will watch Rhaegar and I--” Lyanna felt herself turn red again, too mortified to explain.

“Witnesses? I’ve heard of no such thing,” Catelyn returned. She urged Lyanna to stand up and turn around so she may untie the laces of her gown. “Did the king mention such a thing?”

“No,” Lyanna admitted shrugging out of the dress.

“Well, I doubt he would hide such a thing from you. I’m sure Brandon was only being wicked.”

Though she hoped that were true-- and if it was, she would kill Brandon --the feeling in the pit of her stomach was telling her that this bedding would not be as pleasant as Lyanna had wanted it to be. The first time was ruinous-- Robert had been stinking of wine and Lyanna had never been bedded before. Through his carelessness and her apprehension she spent a good part of the night sobbing into pillows as she pressed a hand to the searing pain that had bloomed between her legs.

Lyanna didn’t want this time to be like that. She wanted to be pleased, to sigh and moan and beg, just her and her new husband, alone, together.

She remained silent as Catelyn ridded her of her smallclothes, draping them on a nearby chair. In their place, Catelyn offered a robe for Lyanna to shrug into, an ivory garment that was silky and extravagant and nothing like anything Lyanna owned. The fabric was far too delicate to be a northern craft.

“A wedding gift, from me,” Catelyn informed her warmly. “I’m sure you think it’s frivolous, but I wanted to get you something. It’s Myrish.”

“It is lovely, Cat,” Lyanna said, her throat burning. “Thank you.”

Catelyn smiled, then pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’ve one more gift for you.” She reached into the pocket of her gown and pulled out a small glass vial with a stopper. “Here, sit on the bed and spread your legs.”

Lyanna nearly choked. “What?”

“Oh-- it’s just an oil. Lavender. It has the loveliest smell.”

Lyanna could not help it; she laughed, shaking her head as she did so. “I do not think my husband shall notice such a thing.”

“Oh, he will. Brandon-- That is, I… I know he will notice.” Catelyn, finally finding something to be embarrassed at, flushed a deeper red. “Here. I shall leave it on the bedside table should you change your mind.”

Before the words had even left her mouth, there was a knock at the door. “Cat!” It was Brandon’s voice. “Are you nearly done?”

Catelyn hurriedly tied the sash of the robe around Lyanna’s waist, hiding her body behind ivory silk. “Yes! What--” She scurried to the door, and opened it a crack. “What do you want?” Lyanna heard Catelyn hiss.

“You,” her brother growled in return, and Lyanna bit her lip to keep from laughing again. “Hurry up.”

Catelyn glanced back at Lyanna; from her spot on the bed, she gave her blessing with a nod.

“Oh, very well,” Catelyn relented, giving Lyanna one last smiled before she escaped out the room. Lyanna could hear her giggle behind the door, and could guess at what they were going to do very soon. Lucky for them, however, they won’t have witnesses.

Mulling over her misfortune a little while longer, Lyanna pulled her legs to her chest and sighed. _Why hadn’t Rhaegar mentioned anything? Isn’t that something worth mentioning? I should think so… By the gods, if anyone other than Rhaegar walks through that door I will run. I’ll hide out in the wolfswood and never return. All they’ll find left of me is this robe._

From the corner of her eye, Lyanna saw the doorknob turn. Balling her hands into fists, she prepared herself for whatever army may come.


	5. Rhaegar III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding night ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you guys didn't wait too long for this ;)

Rhaegar cannot say he fully understood the fear that had washed over Lyanna’s face when he walked through the door, but he supposed it was one of the more unnerving ways she could have greeted him.

“Are you alone?” She asked rather suddenly as he shut the door behind him.

“Yes, I’m alone,” he returned quizzically. “Was I meant to bring someone with me?”

“Witnesses,” she blurted out before flushing pink. “I thought-- I heard royal beddings have witnesses.”

Rhaegar shrugged nonchalantly. “Some do. Depends on the circumstances, really. If there’s reason to believe that the marriage will not be consummated, or if the couple wants the High Septon’s endorsement, then yes, I suppose there may be witnesses. Particularly if there are lords and ladies with a vested interest in our offspring.” He recalled the information flatly, hoping that it would sate her sudden curiosity.

“Then I suppose-- no one quite cares if we consummate this marriage?”

“I would care,” he replied with a slight smile. “But no, I suppose not. I have an heir already; no one is quite so concerned with a royal couple’s, well, _coupling_ if there’s heirs.”

“I see,” she said, an expression of relief replacing the fear on her face, and making him feel a little better.

“In any case, don’t you think I’d tell you if we were to have guests in the wedding chamber?” He continued to smile at her as he undid the clasps of his doublet.

He heard her mutter something in return, something that sounded a lot like, “I am going to kill my brother.”

Rhaegar shrugged out of his doublet and draped it neatly it on a nearby chair, where he could see Lyanna’s gown had been discarded. She was already undressed, past even her smallclothes, if the outline he spotted through the fabric of her robe spoke true.

It was strange-- Rhaegar had never been one for lust and wanting. Even in his youth, the coy eyes of the court’s ladies had never quite caught his own. Marriage bolstered his desires slightly, but he found himself just as content abed with his wife as he was out of it. He could not decide if it had always been little more than simply duty to him; while he had never been driven mad with desire, it did tug at him from time to time. Tonight it certainly did-- it had been nigh on three years since he’d shared his bed with another, but the memory remained warm in his mind. 

It had occurred to him that Lyanna may not be so keen; certainly, he could postpone it for another night, but he had hoped that she would meet his desires tonight. The road back would be long, with few opportunities for consummation-- and perhaps tonight was a fated night. Perhaps nine months from now, he would have his promised third child.

It did no good to think this way now; it was too cold, too calculated. Elia had been a woman for introspection too, but even she was made of fire, a warm woman with base desires like anyone else. He did not yet know Lyanna intimately enough to understand if she were the same, or how she was different. Tonight would mark the first night of many together-- he supposed they had plenty of time.

Lyanna did not shy her eyes away from him as he pulled off his shirt, but she bit her lip when he reached for the laces of his trousers. He could not quite tell if that was a sign of desire or something else, but he stopped there, naked from the waist up, and met his new wife on the bed.

Her eyes wandered shyly down to the space between them. At this angle, he was able to count her freckles, one by one. Her fair skin appeared to have spent plenty of time in the sun. Unexpectedly, Lyanna took his hand between her own, splaying out his fingers as her thumb ran over his palm. She laid her own hand atop of his, palm pressed to palm, and gave a nervous smile at how the tops of his fingers curled over hers.

“You have large hands-- no, actually, you have long fingers. These are graceful hands. A musician’s hands,” Lyanna said with a nervous smile. She removed her palm from his. “They are bigger than mine, but they are not so big. Robert…” He could hear her suck in a breath. He sensed a comparison forming itself in her head, but he could hardly blame her. She had known no other man than him. “Robert had big hands-- brutish hands. A warrior’s hands. They were not always gentle.”

She ran a finger over the callouses on the tops of his palms, then drifted up to the ones on the tips of his fingers. “He did not have these callouses here.”

“I have a musician’s hands, as you say,” Rhaegar explained in a low voice. “I never took Robert for a man who would pluck at harp strings.”

Lyanna giggled girlishly. “No, he would not.” She released his hand. Rhaegar boldly moved it to her bare thigh, where it peeked out from her robe; she shuddered. “Forgive me,” she breathed. “Such touches-- the marriage bed is not a place of pleasant memories for me.”

“Did he never please you?”

“No,” Lyanna answered immediately, before she could think on it. “Well, perhaps he did. When the drink wasn’t upon him and he took his time and paid attention to me-- that was not often.”

“Then he was a wretched fool,” Rhaegar returned hotly.

Lyanna smiled. “And you always pleased your wife, Rhaegar?”

Suddenly embarrassed, he lowered his eyes quickly. He must have turned a touch pink, for another little giggle escaped Lyanna’s lips. “Most of the time. I did my best,” he admitted. “I was a boy of sixteen when we married, and she almost twenty. I had much to learn.” He paused, though out of embarrassment or something else entirely, Lyanna could not be sure. “As her health declined, I kept away. She would insist, yet neither of us took much joy in the act. We did not expect her to carry another child. I knew it would kill her.” It was a hurried confession, and one that left him with a heavy feeling in his chest.

“And it did,” Lyanna finished for him. She stroked his arm, and offered a tender smile. “It pained you to lose her.”

“It did.”

“I laughed with joy when Robert died,” she said coldly. “Does that make me wicked?”

“Not everyone is worth mourning.”

“Even so, I should have wept for him. If only for appearance’s sake. If only because I know he would have wept for me.” She gave a lazy shrug. “It’s too late for that now-- I’m certain every whore in the Stormlands wept plenty for him. My tears would not have been as honest as those shed over losing a wealthy patron.” 

“Now _that_ is a wicked thing to say,” Rhaegar returned, his voice hard but his face smiling. 

“You’ve married a wicked woman. Wicked, and wanton, and wild.” She returned his smile with a grin of her own. “Are you certain you want me still?”

“Most ardently.” He sealed his words with a kiss, a sweet, long one upon her lips as he held her chin between his forefinger and thumb. Desire built slowly, beginning with the touch of Lyanna’s cool hand on his chest. Both were accustomed to this, used to it. There was nothing left to learn except the specific landscapes of each others’ bodies. It made for a new sort of wedding night, the type where neither one had to fear if they were doing it wrong or hurting the other. Still, Lyanna had suddenly pulled away from him when he slipped his hands into her robe and onto the skin of her waist. She looked to him with wide eyes, mistrusting him.

“You’ve no cause to fear me,” Rhaegar told her between breaths. “I’ll do no more than what you desire.”

She sucks in her breath again. “I know,” she said in a tone that sounded like a mustering of courage. Her two small hands cover his before pulling them to the ties of her robes. She held his gaze as he gingerly pulled it off her, bolder in her nakedness than in her modesty. Her body was arched toward him; his eyes hungrily trailed down starting from her small pale breasts tipped with pink, over the flat plane of her middle, down to the dark thatch of hair between her thighs, then her slender, coltish legs. 

Soundlessly, she shifts onto his lap before placing one warm hand at the nape of his neck as the other reached for his own again-- this time to guide his fingers to in between her legs.

Things progressed naturally afterward, perhaps even easily as the memory of lovemaking stirred his hands, mouth, and body for him. He pressed kisses to her neck as she mewled in his ear, nails digging into his skin for every time her legs squeezed around his hand. With her body twisted toward him, the stiff tip of a breast would press to his chest for every time she rolled her hips onto his hand, and her thighs rubbed over the bulge in his trousers countless times.

Pulling his fingers away from her apex, he instead squeezed the inside of her wet thigh, surprised to hear her suddenly cry out in unmistakable pleasure.

“Right there, then?” He murmured against her temple as his thumb grazed over that spot against her thigh once more. “Here?” He pressed ever so lightly, but it was enough to earn him a little yelp, followed by a pair of dark, savage eyes meeting his own in a sort of veiled threat. “That _is_ good to know.”

“Horrible man,” she said in a gasp, her breaths hardly keeping up with her.

He chuckles before kissing her, a kiss that was breathless and hard and tasted distinctly of joy. Lips locked, the pair moves in unison, both in full understanding of the dance they were performing. Lyanna shifts so she is lying back on the bed, and Rhaegar moves with her, taking his place above her and between her legs.

It is by her own eager hands that his trousers are unlaced and he is unsheathed, hard and aching in her hot little hand. Those strong legs lock around his hips, pulling him closer, and guiding him inside her.

She is warm, and eager, and the feeling of her around him is delicious besides. Encouraged by the way she held his face and kissed him, chaste, gentle kisses that involved a lot of nose bumping, Rhaegar moves, slowly before he finds his rhythm.

Then it is like any dance, or any song, and they moved partially by instinct, partially by experience, until an end was found.

He rolls off her, his breaths coming fast and his heart beating faster. He could remember now, the beginnings of his first marriage, and the pleasure he had taken abed with his wife. Tonight was just as sweet, and just as welcome.

Lyanna moves, propping herself up on an elbow at look at him. Her grey eyes are no longer so stormy, but rather as clear as a morning sky.

“You are so quiet,” she said with a shy smile. “If it had not been for… The obvious sign… I would not have known that I pleased you.”

“I shall endeavor to make it known, then,” Rhaegar returned, smiling at how her flushed face turned redder. He trailed a finger down her cheek, then held her chin in his hand. “I did not hurt you?”

She shook her head. “You were gentle, and gallant, and all that he was not.” She took his hand and pressed a kiss to his palm. His arm was guided across her back as she lowered her head to his shoulder. He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“We’ve a long journey ahead of us tomorrow; sleep,” he said, drawing the sheets over them.

While Lyanna didn’t seem the sort to readily follow orders, she hummed in agreement, her warm breath falling upon his chest, right over where his heart was.


End file.
